


when oblivion comes calling out your name

by girlwiththeradishearrings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, Comfort, F/M, i was implying it but..., jon/sansa if you read into it heavily
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:03:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1820995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwiththeradishearrings/pseuds/girlwiththeradishearrings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon finds Sansa's hiding place when the bombs start falling and she thinks she will break like a doll if he holds her much tighter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when oblivion comes calling out your name

Sansa wipes clammy palms on shaky knees and her teeth rattle every time she sucks in air. "Be strong like mother, like father… like… like Robb… _damn you_." Shuddering, her nails carve half moons into the soft flesh of her shins as she clutches her trembling knees tight to her chest. Her night gown is damp with sweat and slides persistently from her shoulders, sticking to her body like hot breath. Wet strands of hair cling to her cheeks and smear to her forehead in tangled tendrils. All she can smell is the cedar interior of the wardrobe and her mother's perfume—lingering on the rich evening gowns she couldn't pack: sharp, suffocating, cloyingly sweet.

Sansa whimpers into her legs, stomach rolling and clenching with nausea.

She hears footsteps clamoring up the stair. The crevice in-between the wardrobe's doors lets in a sliver of light which quivers as the house groans and shakes. _It is afraid. Like me. It is scared of the aeroplanes,_ Sansa thinks fleetingly, her nails clawing deeper into her skin. Sansa pressures her back further into the dark, wincing as the notches of her spin pierce into the wooden backboard. _Strong like mother, like father… Robb wouldn't be scared…stop it—stop crying…._ But even as she thinks the words, Sansa can't ease the fear from her body; her muscles are cinched too tightly, the cogs inside her brain whirl the way they did in father's pocket watch, flashing and shifting with horrible images inside her head.

The shred of light is abruptly snuffed out like a candle. The footsteps grow increasingly louder. Her nails dig deeper into her shins. Sharp teeth gnaw fastidiously on her bottom lip. The steps pound along the floorboards—akin to the thrumming of her anxious heart. Skin breaks and Sansa feels blood run along her fingertips.

"Sansa?" A hushed voice calls from behind the wooden barrier. She is safe in here, it is outside that bears the burdens of war: beasts and bombs, heaps of smoldering rubble.

The doors of the wardrobe are thrust open and the scream tears from her throat violent and choking, the chords of her slender neck grappling with such an abrupt function of sound. Her fingers drag against the cavernous walls, her toes convulse, so rabid is the fear nesting in her guts.

"Sansa, what are you doing in there?" Jon's soothing tone is disrupted by the urgency in his voice, and the feigned look of composure he wears is betrayed by his heavy breathing. "We have to get down to the shelters. You heard the sirens, you know what they mean, don't you?"

 It is an empty question that requires no answer. Everyone in London knows what the sirens mean.

Sansa's eyes sting with repressed tears. Jon's arms reach for her and she scampers forward, burrowing her face into his shoulder. He reeks of dust and oatmeal, like the shelter, and when his strong arms wrap around her, lifting her with ease, she is reminded of father. They have the same eyes after all, grey and somber, always serious, always calculating some unfinished arithmetic inside their heads. Even the unshaved scruff of Jon's jaw feels like father's did. _But he is not father_. The recognition steels into her with a shiver, and she grips Jon's shirt frantically.

The steps thunder beneath them. They sound odd. Too loud.

" _Damn_ ," Jon swears with an audible note of fear. A high pitch whistle is defining from outside, echoing through the vacant, dark house. They stumble down the last stair and Jon surges forward into the parlor, the crystal chandelier hanging from above oscillates wildly, the tinkering of glass swelling into a cacophony; shouts compounded with the fresh bout of sirens makes Sansa cry out into her brother's shoulder. His fingers stroke her hair, arms locking more tightly around her fragile body. She will break like a doll if he holds her much tighter.

"Jon!" Sansa hears Arya shout from the threshold of the sitting room. His body jerks into motion and they rush into the next room. His fingers grind into her back painfully, but she keeps quiet, too afraid to speak. The door to the backyard is gaping open. Sansa watches from over Jon's shoulder as Arya stumbles down the gravel path behind them, her feet bare and coated in ash.

" _Did you find her!?_ "

" _Sansa, Arya!_ "

" _Jon, what's happening!?_ "

The shelter door swings shut with a snap. Sansa doesn't let go of Jon, not immediately. Her fingers have left speckles of blood on his night shirt.

"Arya!" Jon shouts. "Never go back once you hear that siren! Are you listening to me? You come straight here— _do you understand?_ " Arya scowls, her brows pinching together.

"But you went back, you went to get Sansa!"

"That was different. I'm your older brother, it's my job to protect you while Robb and your mother are gone. Promise me you won't do it again," he growls, showing an unusual trace of anger.

Arya shuffles her feet, puckering her mouth before grudgingly giving a nod of her head.

 Jon places Sansa down gingerly and runs a hand through his dark hair with worriment, the subtle tremors in his fingers noticeable by Sansa alone.

A bomb goes off somewhere out in the night gloom and Rickon begins to cry, clutching onto Sansa's leg. She straightens her night gown and scoops him up as their mother had done a thousand times before, smoothing down his hair as Jon had done to her only moments before and murmuring gently in his ear.

The shelter is compact with three cots: two flanking the sides of the shelter and one on the back wall, the limited space leaving the cots to all touch. Bran is resting on the far cot along the back wall, his hair rumpled and night clothes disorderly, feet swinging moderately over the cot's edge, his toes whispering against the dirt flooring. Arya sits with a disgruntled huff on a cot along the wall and Sansa does the same, the cots sinking in protest of their conjoined weight.

Jon remains the only one standing. His jaw clenches and unclenches, mouth thinning with every burst of turmoil that permeates the shelter's door.

"I'm going to the station tomorrow. I have a friend that owes me a favor. He's in charge of the automobile schedules and he might be able to get you all a car."

"A car for what?" Arya questions, instantly suspicious.

Rickon's cried have lessened now. Sansa looks up, her eyebrows perked in curiosity. Were they going to see Robb… or mother?

"I need to get you all out of here, it's not safe. Your mother wanted to keep you here, but I doubt she anticipated the scope of this war. It's too risky and I can't afford to lose any of you."

“But…” Bran begins faltering. “But this is our home, Jon. How can we just leave?”

“It’s not safe here, not anymore.”

“You’ll come with us, Jon,” Sansa’s free hand curls along the edge of the cot and she squeezes until her knuckles pale. “We’ll stay together, right?”

Jon’s throat muscles clamp before he swallows. “I don’t know… I can’t promise you anything, not right now. We’re living in very precarious times, but… the best we can do right now is hope.”

A shell goes off with a screaming thunder, uprooting London, ripping the flesh of the streets. Sansa knows that under daylight, the concrete sidewalks will be unturned, splintered to pieces, littered with garish pieces from other people’s lives. The homes little children grew up in will scatter like dice, bits of glass and furniture splashed into the fray.

A second blast quakes the earth beneath them, forcing their cots rattle, the metal joints creaking like an old grandfather’s.

“I want mum, Sansa,” Rickon murmurs wetly into her shoulder. His tears dribble down the slope of her collarbone. “Where’s mum?”

She soothes his hair incessantly, shushing him as Robb did when the three year old got fussy. “Would you like me to sing for you, hm? A pretty song to give you sweet dreams?” Rickon’s petit chin digs into Sansa’s chest as he nods. “You have to get into bed then, darling, in you go.” Only when he has the stiff blankets up to his neck, tiny fingers grasping the edges, does Sansa begin.

The first song that comes to mind is a hymn from church. She remembers singing it with Jeyne and her mother in the pews, trying not to cry at how beautiful it sounded as the voices rose and fell in tandem.

Jon unhooks the lamp from the wall, and sinks to the floor, his back resting against the shelter’s door. _He is trying to shield us, protect us_ , Sansa thinks.

“ _Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_ _save our sons from war, we pray._ ” 

“ _Stay the swords and stay the arrows,_ _let them know a better day._ _Gentle Mother, strength of women,_ _help our daughters through this fray._ ” Bran’s cots squeaks as he wriggles beneath the sheets.

Arya huffs, yet slides onto bed, leaving her blankets off.

“ _Soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way._ _Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray._ _Stay the swords and stay the arrows. Let them know a better day._ ” 

By the time Sansa finishes, little Rickon is asleep, his eyelids fluttering ever so slightly when the shelter falls silent. “Please don’t stop,” Arya whispers from her cot. And Sansa begins again.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies, it's short! Just a small drabble...
> 
> Titled from "Oblivion" by Bastille.


End file.
